The Little Prince
by The Bellow
Summary: Stories of how Prince Saralegui became the King that he was. Updates supremely erratic.
1. Colours

_ For Kerii-tan,_  
_who spurred me into writing by telling me of the sad few Saralegui stories._  
_Thank you very much for doing it right after I had woken up and ate some pancakes._

* * *

Small Shimaron was always most well-known for its becoming independent from Big Shimaron. That was something no one could deny. But what many, but not most, fail to remember is that there were several _good_ reasons for this, and that the country should never be underestimated.

For one, their trade was of the most successful kind. The country produced and exported so much that, if ever they were put into isolation, they would survive quite comfortably. Several kinds of individuals, peasants and nobles alike, have also come to visit the onsen baths that the country was also popular for.

Small Shimaron's current King, Gilbert, had only one child. A son, his retainers were relieved to say. Interaction between father and son was rare, but it was a male heir nonetheless (surely the offspring of one of the greatest rulers of Small Shimaron could not become a tyrant like Belal). They rarely saw the boy and assumed he was off playing with those his age.

But as valid as this idea was, it was incorrect.

Little Prince Saralegui was rarely ever with other children. It always alternated between his nanny, Larissa, and some of his other maids and solitude. In fact, if any of King Gilbert's advisers had stepped out from the cool interior of the palace and into the warmth of the gardens, then they would have spotted a child kneeling on the flagstone ground, gazing at the flowers, but never reaching out a hand to touch them.

Tawny eyes would gaze at the soft petals, the soft arc of each little leaf of grass, the common butterfly that would come to rest on the plants. He could not see them properly – the way that others saw them – with the tinted glasses that the king himself made him wear. Saralegui never understood why he had to do so, but put them on every morning nonetheless. After all, if his father had actually deemed the matter important enough for him to talk to his son, then surely there was a good enough reason.

The Prince normally did not mind wearing them. Not anymore, at least.

When King Gilbert had first presented the glasses to him – once he was old enough to be able to know the right times to put them on and take them off – they had been too much too big for him. Not wanting to disappoint his father, he had tied scraps of cloth to the tips and hid them beneath his long hair. Gilbert had not stuck around to see Saralegui put them on, so he never knew and never bothered to ask.

He did not even remark upon it when he saw Saralegui next.

But seeing the world in lavender had been a new experience. Everything he saw seemed to be sharper and more defined (his eyesight had always been a little blurry). Larissa had said that it looked well on him, and he could tell that she was sincere with him.

Another reason he could have had for liking them was because it was his father – not his nanny or any other of the palace staff – who had presented it to him.

So he actually accepted the glasses happily and only took them off when going to sleep and taking baths (and sometimes, not even then).

However, every time he had come to the gardens, a small desire to take them off always surfaced. He was so much younger when he had last seen the garden the way that others saw it. It had been _so long_ since he had felt the enchantment of seeing _real_ colours and not the blasted colour of royalty before his eyes.

And because of this, Saralegui tended to try to avoid the gardens. He knew he had to.

So he stayed inside the mundane corridors and rooms of the palace, reading. At one point, he had had a tutor to teach him things. However, he had gone through all six of them at an alarming rate. As a result, he had been deemed a genius and had just been given topics to read about, which suited him just fine.

He never found reading all that boring, anyway.

But after a year of successfully staying inside the palace, for some very strange reason, he had found himself kneeling by a bed of flowers – almost as if he had just woken from a dream. And even after realizing where he was, Saralegui had just stayed there, deep in thought.

If you asked him what he was thinking about, he would not have been able to tell you.

Of course, there came the fateful day when he discovered why he wore the lavender tinted glasses.

As nearly everything begins, it was all an accident.

Saralegui was in the garden once more. He had abandoned the library in favour of the warmth of the sun and the smell of fresh grass and the type of small blossoms that he could never find the name of in any of his books.

This time, his thoughts were tangible and, however much we would like to know of them, private. All I can say was that the Prince's face bore an eerie likeness to a starving man in solitary confinement.

As you can probably imagine, an expression such as this did not become such a young face – let alone that of royalty.

And it was his thoughts that probably led him to taking both hands up to his face and removing the glasses. He held them in his hands, but his eyes remained closed.

_I can still put them back on_, thought Saralegui. But an almost alien anger had invaded his mind then. Why _should_ he have to wear them? It was just for a little bit anyway. Even if he did take them off, would anyone even _care_? Would his father care?

No.

He knew it deep down.

Not at all.

Absorbed by this new anger – one that he could say that he never actually experienced before – Saralegui opened his two amber eyes.

The light hurt, at first. But he defiantly gazed at where he recalled the small blossoms were and let his eyes adjust.

And everything was _beautiful_.

He saw the normally lilac blossoms he had often admired become a pure and clean white. A vast multitude of colours crowded behind it; cheerful yellows, devilish reds, and serene blues. And the grass! Even the grass seemed to glitter like emeralds.

"Your highness," a crisp voice interrupted.

Prince Saralegui froze, more exasperated than he had ever been in his life, and turned to Larissa, his nanny. She was a trim young woman, with straight brown hair down to her shoulders.

"We're to go back inside." His nanny told him, with her smile that was not quite a smile. It seemed to be a bit of both a frown and a grin, most of the time; even when she was happy.

"No, thank you," Saralegui said quietly to her – almost shyly, "I'd like to stay out here for just a while longer."

"But His Majesty wishes to speak to you." She pressed, although slightly surprised. Her charge normally went along with whatever she said.

The Prince seemed to harden when she mentioned his father. And for the first time, she noticed that the omnipresent lavender glasses were absent from his face and were, instead, clutched in his small hands, which were now clenched into fists.

"Larissa." His voice seemed to have a more permanent quality to it. It was high and young, but carried itself to places in her mind that she had never discovered before and branded itself onto her.

Her eyes snapped back to his face, and Larissa could not find it in herself to look away.

An electric blue, as transfixing and as blistering as the brightest and hottest flame, seared into her eyes, into her mind.

"I shall stay outside for just a while longer," said Prince Saralegui coldly, "and will come back inside to see my father _later_. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, your highness."

Without a word, the Prince's nanny had left the little boy alone in the gardens. She had walked a few meters through the corridors and stopped just outside King Gilbert's office.

Larissa stared at the door a few moments before promptly collapsing.

* * *

I got tired of waiting for the good Sara stories to update (which most haven't done since last year) and decided to see if I'd get lucky with writing one more of my own. I certainly did get luck with Affable, my Sara drabblet (as no one's told me it was horrible just yet). However, I have a sinking feeling that I _didn't_ do so well this time.

Tell me what you think.

-Wayward's Passenger


	2. Vow

What had he done?

If he had wanted to get away with taking off his glasses, then he should have _put them back on_ and said that his ears began to hurt or he saw a speck of dust on the lense.

But _instead_, he... Wait - what _had _he done exactly? He remembered speaking rudely to Larissa and there was this horrid moment where everything started to spin and a pounding had begun in the back of his head. And then she turned around, not unlike a puppet being tugged by its strings, and left him.

That could wait. There were more pressing matters to attend to.

Prince Saralegui stood in his father's office, frozen with fear. Gilbert sat behind the desk and did not look at him, instead grimly reading letters from different lords. Savion, the palace healer, stood to the side, his face tight.

"Your nanny is comatose," the healer said, moving a bit closer to the little boy.

Saralegui stopped breathing and he could only stare at Savion in alarm. His thoughts began to race and loop around once more, circling him like a gam of sharks.

_WhathaveIdone_? _WhathaveIdone_? _WhathaveIdone_?

"And I think you and I know why, Prince Saralegui," the healer said kindly before turning to the king.

"Your majesty, I'd like to try something. With your permission, of course."

"Do as you will."

Savion bowed slightly before kneeling in front the little boy and gently lifting the lavender glasses off the Prince's face. He cracked a smile when he saw the cloth tied to the tips, but did not comment on them.

Saralegui could see all the colours again; but this time, the magic of it all had deserted him. Instead, the absence of any purple only terrified him even more. Saralegui's eyes could not rest and they shifted to every corner of the room, trying to find something familiar to gaze at.

Everything was just so foreign! The room, the furniture, the walls – even his father, who seemed stiffer. Everything had just gone so unexpectedly, and it scared him. It would have been so much easier if he had everything under control... If he knew what was going on…

"Your highness," Savion held his face, his thumbs underneath each of his eyes, "Imagine your nanny before you instead of me. Pretend that you are talking to her."

The Prince snapped his eyes to the healer, startled. What good would that do?

"I want you to tell her that she has accomplished what you have ordered and is free to do as she wishes now."

"Would it not be more convenient to bring him to the girl?" King Gilbert spoke for the first time. He had stopped reading, but his dark brown eyes looked only at Savion, and not his son.

"I'm testing his range, your majesty. I want to know if there is a limit on distance. Larissa is currently on the other side of the capital. My assistant Abarrane is with her, and has been ordered to send for me when she has woken."

The monarch nodded before returning to his work.

"Your highness," Savion called for his attention, "If you please."

Saralegui turned away from the healer and stared at the empty air beside a bookshelf, trying to imagine Larissa standing there, looking down upon him, her lips quirked to the smile that was not quite a smile. He did not think of her fondly; just of her standing there, ready to accept his requests.

_It is done_, a voice murmured somewhere in the back of his mind, _those are the words. Quite simple even for a novice._

"It is done," the Prince whispered absently to his nanny. He could feel her somewhere in his mind and promptly cut the connection between them.

"She's awake now," he said softly, a bit dazed.

The door leading into the hallway closed somewhere behind him, effectively snapping him out of it. Saralegui's eyes darted to the desk, and he realized that his father had left the study.

A few seconds passed slowly, like thick honey sliding down glass.

"We shall speak later, your highness," said Savion, rising from his knees.

He probably said something else after that, but Saralegui had already grabbed his glasses from his hands and was out the door chasing his father before he could continued.

There was a horrible moment where he knew what he was going to do and certainly did not want to do it.

Saralegui was going to apologize.

The sun had already descended upon the horizon, setting the blue of the sky ablaze. But he could not see this properly, and only felt worse when he noticed that he could practically smell some of the sweeter of the blossoms from the garden.

He saw his father at the end of the corridor and tried to draw nearer to him. It was so rare that the King was not surrounded by his retainers, and it was probably his only chance at ever getting out what he wanted to say properly.

Saralegui was close now. He was too out of breath to call out – his father's strides were long and very brisk. But when he got close enough to believe he had even a chance of catching up, he slipped and fell down.

Perhaps King Gilbert knew what he was trying to do, and perhaps he didn't. However, there was no denying that he had not heard the Prince frantically jogging towards him.

Either way, when his son had slipped and cried out as he fell to the cold stone floor, he did not ask him if he was alright.

King Gilbert did not even turn.

And Prince Saralegui could only watch.

A little boy kneeled by a window in one of the palace's smaller towers, looking down upon Small Shimaron's capital through lavender glasses. He could not enjoy the marvellous reds and oranges that washed over the trees and houses.

Saralegui was back where he started.

Except this time, he had never felt more alone in his life.

Not to mention humiliated and angry.

Why did his father despise him so much? – No, despise was too strong a word. He rarely even acknowledged him. The king was indifferent to whatever he did.

But what had he ever done to be unworthy of any affection from him?

That was a good place to start.

The little prince thought back to memories of any wrongdoing on his part. Not many surfaced. There was that time just this afternoon when he had spoken to his nanny – but he had already acted this way before that, so that couldn't be it.

He brought himself back to earlier times.

The hem of his robes had once been caught on a nail on the floor, and he had fallen over onto a chair, causing it to knock over a small vase that had been given to his father as a gift long ago…

But that vase was ugly. He had done everyone a favour by making sure no one would see it ever again.

It could have been his going through his tutors so fast. There was that one time when, right after he had practically brought Tutor #4 to tears, Larissa had said that _his majesty_ would have to find him another one. Perhaps he was becoming too troublesome.

But what parent would be disappointed in his child's being intelligent? Even his father couldn't find _that_ disagreeable.

What was wrong with him?

And the answer bubbled to his lips without him even thinking about it.

Nothing.

That answer seemed to make everything alright, and the stress seemed to drain away. For the first time in so long – maybe even months – his lips quirked into a smile. It felt strange, maybe even unnatural, but it felt _good_.

His father's feelings were unimportant. It wasn't his problem. Why had he ever found them important anyway? A person does not require affection or even love from their parents, after all. The needs of the body can be accommodated, but those of the heart were expendable.

It was no major concern to him.

Everything was _fine_.

But there was still the fact that he was rarely acknowledged by _anyone_. Now _this_ was a matter that needed a bit more attention. Even if his father's eyes were blank upon seeing him, this would not change others' reaction to him. Gilbert would have to go eventually.

And then he would have to become king.

The child saw his solution, but his smile slipped, and his face presented any outsider with only conviction

Prince Saralegui _would_ become king at some point. There was no point arguing with that.

But he would be better than King Gilbert ever was. He would surpass his achievements. And then people would acknowledge him. They would never be able to ignore him or his name.

The boy closed his tawny eyes and bowed his head as if in prayer, making his vow to himself and to the twilight.

* * *

I'm concerned that I made Sara think like an adult too much towards the end. It sounded a bit too much like grown up Sara to me. I don't think characterization was my friend for this chapter.

School starts tomorrow, so I probably won't be able to update very soon. But I'll definitely try to keep this up.

Thank you to Kerii-tan, SangLeGuira, and wolfawaken for giving me favourable reviews for the first chapter.

Some reviews would be lovely  
-Wayward's Passenger


	3. Secret

Prince Saralegui often wondered about his mother.

It was not something that he liked thinking of, but, combined with the fact that he and his father had never established much of a connection (a fact he freely accepted), it was only natural that he be curious.

But was it normal to dream about her – a woman that he could not, no matter how hard he tried, remember? It didn't happen every night, but frequently enough that he never forgot after he woke up. It was the same dream over and over.

Saralegui knew immediately that he was an infant every time. He did not know how that piece of information registered, but dream logic was totally different from real logic. Accepting it would be the easiest way.

He would be wrapped in a blanket, comfortable even with the warm air. Something that had not changed even in dreams was that he enjoyed warmth – an unfortunate fact. Small Shimaron was a country with a cool climate. (He could not help but wonder if his father had decided to rule it just to spite him sometimes)

He would then be picked up carefully and cradled gently against a soft feminine body. The arms carrying him would hold him as if he would break at one wrong move; they held him as if he was the world's most precious treasure.

The woman would soon begin walking almost casually somewhere, and he would only be able to perceive the sound of her footsteps for just a while, before rushing waves could finally envelop his hearing.

A soft laugh, and he could feel her smiling at him fondly. Sara wanted to see her face; to see someone smiling at him almost lovingly.

And when he did open his amber eyes, it was to his own bedroom.

The same questions were formed time and time again.

Who was she?

That one was relatively easy. The warmth and familiarity could only be that of a mother.

But was she alive?

What happened to her?

Did she have any idea that Gilbert would be so aloof with her child?

Reason – a good friend that had proven itself to be very dependable over the years – told Saralegui that his mother had died at childbirth. It was not rare and was a possibility for any pregnant woman regardless of who she was and what importance she could have had in anyone's eyes.

But something else – he did not know what – told him that in this case, Reason was as dependable as a thief guarding a box of jewels. For one, he had no proof that she was dead.

Sunlight revealed the dust swirling in the air by the window. He observed this, feeling strangely alive. He could feel his heart beating, his chest rising up and down, his bones popping as he stretched his legs.

As promised, Savion had indeed pulled Saralegui aside for a talk. He had visited the morning after the incident and had told him about the alarming amount of power he had.

"Probably from your mother's side," the healer said, staring at him analytically. The Prince was already used to being looked at this way, but had felt a jolt in his stomach. It was the first time he had ever heard anyone speak of his mother.

"My mother?"

"Oh yes," said Savion matter-of-factly, looking down at a few notes on the table, "It's quite obvious that you inherited more from her than your father. As much as appearances go by, I suppose."

He looked back up, saw the look on the Prince's face, and changed the subject.

"Now, His Majesty and I have come to an agreement that it will be I who shall instruct you more of your power. Simply letting you practice things like this on your own would be disastrous to everyone and yourself.

"However, I will soon have business to attend to in Big Shimaron that cannot be ignored. For now, I shall only leave you with reading assignments. You are _not_ to try and perform any of the instructions until I return.

"Is that agreeable, your highness?"

The Prince nodded silently, slightly let down that the old man was not as warm as he used to be. Of course, he was considered wayward by a noble's standards, but something had changed. There was a steely glint in his eyes.

Then Savion, apparently discovering Tutor #2's comments on Prince Saralegui's studies, had left the little boy twenty-six chapters to read.

It had been four days since then, and no one but he, his father, the healer, and a few soldiers knew of it. Larissa was being kept at home indefinitely, under the watch of Savion and his assistant, Abarrane. According to some maids that he had overheard in the corridors the second day, she had been acting very strangely since she had woken up.

"They say she's been saying the oddest things," said Jemima, "about… well, His Highness."

"His Highness?" Her fellow maid asked. "What about him?

"I don't know exactly what," she replied earnestly, "but apparently, she's been saying his name over and over again and writing it all over the walls since she was sent home.

"Poor thing."

"The question is: why was she sent home in the first place? Larissa was perfectly fine when I saw her that morning, but…"

Prince Saralegui had chosen to walk away at this point.

Larissa was going to be a problem.

The little boy still sat in bed. He supposed it was very late in the morning. The sun was high in its arc and he could hear bustling from out his window and from the corridor. The castle had already woken.

Sighing, he picked up the infamous lavender glasses and put them on; now aware of the damage he could do with his eyes alone.

Goodness, no. Don't get him wrong. Saralegui did not feel social responsibility or guilt. The fewer incidents he was involved in, the better. He needed a good reputation to achieve his ambitions of becoming king quietly.

And his face felt incredibly light without them.

He had no problems whatsoever with wearing them – not anymore, at least. The colours were still stunning, but his desire to actually view them had dulled somewhat. Like his heartbeat, the yearning was always there, but it was never as strong as it used to be.

A maid he did not recognize entered the room and bowed low, nervous.

"Good morning, your highness." She squeaked.

She had probably heard about Larissa, then. There was no way he could stop people from believing what they believed, but…

Then again, he could always present 'evidence' stating otherwise.

"Good morning." His face morphed into that of a happy little boy. The expression felt alien on his face, but he would have to work to get at it. Appearances would need to be kept up.

Saralegui would present himself as pleasant.

The maid's eyes widened.

"May I ask where Claire is?" He said pleasantly, hoping off the bed and allowing her to get close enough to undress him. Claire was Larissa's replacement whenever she was unable to execute her duties. But now that he thought of it, he had not seen her in quite a while.

The maid was hesitant in taking off the little prince's pajamas and was glad for the distraction. "Claire has given birth to her child." She said happily.

"Oh?"

"Yes, your highness. She now has a baby daughter to look after. Perhaps you will see them both when you visit Larissa later today."

"Perhaps I shall," he mused, before snapping his head to her and tilting it slightly, "What did you say your name was again?"

"Delia, your highness."

The next few minutes passed in silence as Delia clumsily helped him get dressed. Obviously, it was her first time doing something like this. She had none of the precision and speed Larissa had in buttoning his shirt and tying strings. Saralegui gradually grew more annoyed, but put on a mask of patience, staring out the window.

When she had (finally) finished, he rushed out the door and down the stairs to have breakfast alone. He had risen later than usual, and ate very little before marching off to the library, where Savion's books were waiting for him.

However, reading wasn't the only thing going on in that library.

The glasses were off, and his eyes glowed bright blue as a book floated in the air. The little boy radiated the air of smugness, though no one was there to see. Saralegui made the thin volume do a somersault before setting it back on the table.

The boy sat a little heavier on his chair and a headache grew like an infection in the back of his head. Even the simplest things wore him out – he would have to try and do something about it. He would have to practice more – worker harder.

Saralegui pushed the glasses up his nose tiredly and closed his eyes. The cold darkness was welcoming. In fact, the exhaustion was welcoming.

Because it was his own. He had never felt so free before – breaking rules. Once he had broken them, he found that there weren't many boundaries left to restrict him with.

The Prince smiled at his little secret.

It was rare that the Prince left the castle.

He stepped out slowly from the carriage, eyes darting to every surface of his surroundings. Everything was so _bright_, even with his glasses. The air was lighter, as if it consisted of light alone – even if the square was crowded with people. Apparently, a group of merchants had recently entered the capital and had set up there. Several people took notice of the little Prince emerging from the carriage, but did not approach. Several guards glared at them, as if daring them to come any closer.

Saralegui dropped lightly onto the grey stone, eyes still moving from object to object before coming to rest on a familiar face.

Claire.

She held an infant in her arms, smiling at it in adoration – like she held a god in her hands. He watched them for a moment, mind reeling and stomach making awful somersaults.

"Your Highness!"

The Prince's head snapped in the direction of the familiar voice. He turned his head in confusion before finally finding its source.

Larissa stood on the ledge of the highest window of the building directly across them in the square. She held a long rope loosely in her hands. His eyes followed its ends and saw one end tied to the rafters, and the other around her frail neck.

His mind had never processed anything so quickly before.

In the square, people screamed. Mothers and fathers covered their children's eyes and rushed them into houses.

"These past two years," she began, smiling at the Prince in an almost delusional manner, "I have served you obediently. And because of that, I pledge myself with my death, for it is my greatest wish that you succeed your father as the ruler of this great country. No man shall ever learn anything I have learned as your servant."

"Long live the future king!" She shrieked.

The maid took one step into nothingness and fell.

Saralegui swiftly turned his head away from her, but nothing would have prevented the loud snap that seemed to almost echo through the air.

The ride back to the castle had been turbulent and disturbing – much like his thoughts. There was absolutely no sign that something like this could have happened that morning. Everything had gone, not wrong, but so unexpected.

The carriage stopped again, and he saw the familiar structure of the palace. He stepped back outside, where he was greeted with more news.

"Your tutor is dead," said a guard seriously, looking down upon him. The annoyance at this was greater than the dull lurch his stomach had taken at the news.

The guard saw Prince Saralegui's face immediately grow graver than it had ever been before (if that was possible).

"How did it happen?"

"An arrow to his chest, Your Highness. Soldiers have been ordered to investigate this thoroughly. When we learn more, we shall inform you."

"I understand," said the Prince, before walking past him.

The little boy had entered his room and closed his door softly before lying down on his bed slowly, staring at the ceiling.

Today had not been what he was expecting.

Fate was pulling a cruel joke on him. It had indeed given him what he wanted – the people who knew about his power staying silent – but in the most terrible way imaginable.

He supposed that if he had ever wanted assurance that they would never tell, then death was the best way.

_No man shall ever learn anything I have learned as your servant_, Larissa's voice repeated her last words in his mind, growing more manic each time.

He shoved her away. There was no use brooding about her needless sacrifice.

But what had caused it?

The answer was already in his mind: power. Larissa was nothing special – she did not have any power. But to have so much of it flood into her… It must have made something snap. Some of his thoughts must have transferred into her.

That didn't explain why she mentioned his becoming king. There was something strange in that. Saralegui had never seriously thought about succeeding his father prior to that day. It wasn't possible that she knew.

Unless… there was still a connection in place.

Yes, that would explain it. He would go over the details later – when he was thinking properly again.

However, there was an almost itch at the back of his neck. Savion. He could always try to learn whatever he had planned on teaching him on his own, but there were other things that he knew that books were never going to tell him.

Savion had known who his mother was. There was no mistaking it.

He knew something he didn't.

Saralegui sighed, feeling more drained than he had ever been in his whole life. His eyes longed for sleep while his mind desired rest. There was nothing he could do.

He kicked off his boots and did not bother calling a maid to help him change. The Prince simply removed his glasses and shifted into a more comfortable position on the bed, and closed his eyes. There was no difficulty falling asleep whatsoever.

How did you think he would take their deaths?

His nanny and his tutor were dead. He was alive.

So he would live.

* * *

It's been a while, eh? I decided to make this longer because of the wait. I've been incredibly busy with school starting and stuff. (I finally got into Ink, my school's writing org, so I'm pretty happy)

The alternate title for this chapter is "In Which Everyone Sara Has a Chance of Getting Attached to is Killed Off". I realized that there really was no way I could keep this in canon with Savion or Larissa in the picture, so they had to go. I thought Larissa could have lasted _just_ a bit longer, but Berias is coming in the next chapter, so I have no use for her.

… That sounded awfully familiar.

Anyway, I based Larissa's suicide on that freakish scene in the Omen remake. While I was watching it, I was like "holy shit!" The last three sentences were also based on The Sandman graphic novels by Neil Gaiman, which is highly recommended for _anyone_. It is seriously one of the best things I have ever read.

However, this chapter is definitely not my favorite. Characterization was definitely iffy, and the writing awkward. It was originally longer than this, but the parts I took out definitely turned Sara into a psycho too early. There was nothing I could do to make this better.

Forgive me.

Normally, I would have jumped ship at the first sign that this wasn't going to go down well – and the fact that I know only four people are reading this – but I'm willing to continue just for your enjoyment. That's the point of all this, right?

I apologize for this freakishly long author's note.

-Patricia

(PS: Something more personal)


	4. Shadow

Anticipation was practically buzzing in the air.

But observing only the King and the Prince of Small Shimaron, you would not have even noticed it. The two royals walked coolly down the corridor, eyes almost blinded by the light flooding from the balcony doors. A herd of advisers shifted uneasily around while guards strode at either side of them, rigid and precise in their every step.

The King nodded, and one of the guards saluted before moving to open the balcony doors. An adviser – Lord Montal – treaded forward towards the balcony.

"His Majesty, King Gilbert of Small Shimaron!"

Cheers and yells erupted from below, from the courtyard.

Gilbert stepped forward and paused for a moment, glancing behind at the little boy staring up at him blankly. He raised his eyebrows.

The Prince did nothing.

King Gilbert turned and stepped out into the bright sunlight for all of his soldiers to see. He raised his arms as if reaching for the sky, and the cheers seem to grow ever louder. The very ground seemed to tremble with the might of the soldiers below them.

Now _this_ was a king; a ruler of a nation – Gilbert was adored by all his people and went to the greatest extent in fulfilling his duties. _This_ was the man who forced Big Shimaron, their mother country, to recognize Small Shimaron's autonomy. His very presence was commanding, majestic, and inspiring.

This was a monarch that would be celebrated as one of the great.

And Prince Saralegui could only watch, hidden behind his father's shadow.

Toys were scattered around him, but he did not even care to glance at them or the maids trying to show them to him. He found himself staring idly into a wall.

"Your Highness?" Delia held a doll up too near his face for comfort. The new maid was still around, annoying as ever. He would have to do something about her soon – discreetly, of course.

The doll was made after a little girl (why in the world she would think to give him something like that was beyond even him). It had braided yellow hair made of soft yarn and had a blue dress made of cotton. It even had lace trimmings.

Saralegui took the doll in his hands and examined it critically. The green eyes twinkled. Another few seconds confirmed his suspicion that they were made of the same kind of glass they used for beer bottles.

Charming.

All the same, the hard work put into it could be seen. But… a thread was already coming loose on its arm.

His fingers played with it.

"It's very pretty," he said quietly, smile soft.

Delia smiled at him sympathetically. The poor thing, she thought. To have lost two people who were probably very dear to him all in the same day… it's unbelievable.

Saralegui stared back at her blankly; however, anger was beginning to bubble behind the surface. Did she really think that he needed her pity?

But he said nothing, deciding to exude the picture of grief instead.

Larissa's death had caused a dark shadow to fall upon the capital. The news had spread out to the people who had not been at the square and had even reached merchants from Big Shimaron.

For someone to take his or her own life was a rather odd thought in these times. To have witnessed a suicide, however, was simply unfathomable. Those who knew Larissa were well aware that she had been ill towards the end of her life, but there was something awfully strange about how suddenly something had snapped in her head.

No one suspected anything of Saralegui, though. If anything, the people only saw the nanny's undying devotion to him. That was something to be remembered. Her parting words to him and the rest of the world was in regards to her wishes that Prince Saralegui would become king.

And Larissa was not one to simply get attached to just anyone.

So _surely_ the Prince would be worthy of the crown when the time came.

Her family were sure of it. Her friends were sure of it. Everyone who _knew her_ was sure of it.

And that was much better than nothing.

Later, the maids finally left him alone with his thoughts.

And the doll.

His fingers still continued to play with the loose thread even after the door closed. It went on for a few minutes as thoughts continued to pass through his head idly.

And then the Prince pulled on the string. Hard.

There was a satisfying ripping sound.

Saralegui had been right about the doll: it was as fragile as anything else.

He put his finger through the hole he had made. It wasn't very big, but it was noticeable if you were really looking. Deliberately, he pushed against the cloth, and the ripping sound came again.

His lips twitched into a smile as he found the next stray thread and pulled again.

The room was filled with the sound of ripping and thread being pulled from cloth. The little boy's smile seemed to grow more manic and the pace of the ripping seemed to quicken as it went along.

Not very long later, bits of stuffing lay on the floor of his room like fallen snow, the breeze coming in from his window making some of it fly and cling onto his hair and his clothes. A small pile of yarn and stray thread lay in front of him. Scraps of torn blue cotton and lace had been discarded none-too-neatly on the floor.

Two pieces of green bottle, no longer discernable as once being eyes, lay a good distance away from him.

The manic smile was no longer present on the Prince's face; only one of a lethargic sort of serenity, as if he had just read a wonderful story in a book or drank a particularly good cup of tea before going to bed.

It hadn't been difficult at all, tearing the toy apart. It was the simple matter of finding the thread and tugging on it.

The whole thing would come apart sooner or later.

Savion's death had barely been touched upon since the news of it arrived. Larissa's had completely eclipsed it, and it wasn't uncommon for wayward arrows to come to those who strayed from their countries.

No one spoke of it in the castle. Saralegui inquired guards of the investigation, but there had been no leads. They would not even tell him where the healer had died, or where the body was.

So the Prince left it alone, too. It was a major loss. There were many things that he could have learned from his now-dead tutor. Savion had always exuded the air of erudition in almost every field.

A new tutor would come eventually, though. Until then, he would continue sitting alone in the library, a flock of books flying about the air.

The loopy cursive of Savion's notes had not extended to very much. It had been unfortunate that he had given the Prince only twenty-six chapters.

Such a waste.

Prince Saralegui sighed in the musty library.

He needed to get out of there for few moments. A small headache had begun to form after attempting to lift three books into the air by just staring at them.

The fresh air would do him good.

The Prince soon found himself in the gardens once more, gazing blankly upon the flowers before him, the droplets of rain from the last shower resting upon the petals.

He could hear footsteps coming from his left, but he paid no mind to them – they probably belonged to a servant or one of Gilbert's advisers. Saralegui only looked up when a large shadow rested upon him.

He could not register many details, like the man's face; the sun shone too brightly behind him. But the Prince could make out his dark clothing, and twin swords at his hips.

His eyes widened and he let out a breath. What was this strange – obviously skilled – foreigner doing here? Was he some sort of mercenary or an assassin? What was he doing in the castle? Where were the damn guards?

The man abruptly kneeled, and Saralegui found himself unconsciously wincing and closing his eyes and leaning away.

"Prince Saralegui," the man's voice was low and grave, "I am Berias."

That didn't change anything.

But he could see the man's face now – his eyes were dark and his skin was tanned. This Berias was youngish, but held the air of an old man reliving his misery.

From behind his lavender glasses, the Prince continued to just stare at the foreigner. What did he want from him?

"I swear my undying allegiance to you."

Close by, two butterflies flew off; sweet scents of sunshine radiating off their wings.

* * *

Honestly, this chapter is my favorite – even if it _is_ pretty short compared to the others.

So _what_ if I changed a few details and lines from the anime? It's called artistic license… (added to the fact that my friend totally stole my oh-so-fake DVD of Season 3).

Anyway, I just got through Hell week, so I finished this and even made a Sara AMV to celebrate. In case you want to see, it's on my YouTube patricia2big under Map of the Problematique: Saralegui. It's not the song I wanted to use, though. Explanations are in the description box.

I definitely updated a lot sooner than I thought I would. My exams are about to begin, and I was planning on Doing Good on them, but this just happened to pop up in my head, so there.

Drop me a review… to let me know you guys actually exist, at least.

-Patricia


	5. Symmetry

**Symmetry**

Saralegui liked mirrors.

Perhaps it was the first blooms of vanity that did it. Not many could fault him for it – he had grown rather nicely over the years. Too nicely, not one, but many note. It had been a great hope that the rounded cheeks would become harsher, more angular over the years; that the bony body would toughen.

These hopes were only crushed and set aflame in favor of another image – the Prince, in appearances, had become the polar opposite of the King. He did not look a thing like his father, the epitome of rough battle and victory, instead adopting milky skin and soft muscles.

It was not too much of a disappointment, though. Not many could deny that the boy was beautiful, and the attention placed upon him as the years passed grew dramatically. The _type_ of attention was almost sickening, considering that the boy was barely twelve now.

His eyes, despite being guarded by the omnipresent lavender glasses, were sharp.

(Not many knew what color his irises were.)

The blonde hair that fell down his back was effortlessly straight, and people could only assume that it felt like silk when touched.

(Not many had ever tried.)

Saralegui was well aware of the stares that he received. He was also aware of the fact that the people who showered him with compliments were hungry for either power or sex. During any of the balls that Small Shimaron's royalty were obligated to host, he would graciously evade any advances from those he knew were untrustworthy.

But we'll get to that later.

Saralegui had a liking for mirrors, but he found that it wasn't really because of his reflection. There was something about the awful symmetry – the precise unnaturalness of it all. To see himself, but not really himself, doing what he did.

It was the sense that there was something on the other side; a sense that there was something different about his reflection when he looked upon himself.

He didn't actually believe this. The one time his hand had actually reached out to his doppelganger's, it had met cool glass.

There was nothing there, and that's all there was to it.

The kingdom of Small Shimaron was, contrary to popular belief, wasn't small at all. It was roughly about two-thirds of the size of Big Shimaron, which draped itself brazenly over the northern regions of the world. Small Shimaron sat south of its brother, closer to the equator of the globe, but still bitterly cold in its winters.

Small Shimaron's capital was proclaimed to be in the extreme south of the kingdom, easily the warmest location in its entirety, but still cool. It had been declared by Althalos de Aguirre, the leader of the resistance who eventually became the first monarch, just after Small Shimaron's First War for Autonomy between the brother countries. This was a strategic location – far from the border, close to both the mountains and the seas – because many of the rebel forces were fisherman and nearly all of the naval officers.

Althalos was a noble who had served as a strategist of the Shimaron army in for many years. He knew how they played, and in turn, he played all their weak spots. Shimaron's forces were based mostly on land, and perished attempting to reach the capital.

After the war, tensions were still very high, though both sides pretended that this was not the case. As 'friendly' kingdoms, Big Shimaron subtly suggested moving the capital. Althalos II, the first king's son, kindly refused, providing the reason that it would be mostly just an inconvenience to the people.

It was a secret among those who lived in the capital itself that the King kept it this way so that it would provide an even greater inconvenience to those from Big Shimaron whenever diplomatic visits were required.

Keeping true to the secret, balls were held more often than actually necessary. King Edur, famous for having built the entertainment district east of the country, held the record for having the banquets in his rule than any other leader. Of course, this was his undoing – his goblet of wine had been poisoned, and he had died on his throne as his guests socialized.

That did not stop the banquets, but succeeding leaders had brought them down to a moderate pace. Of course, King Gilbert had been different, holding these parties only every once in a while. He was rarely present when he hosted them, but his son attended every single one of them.

"Unfortunately, His Majesty is unwell, Lord Crewe," the Prince said to the taller man. He looked up at him physically, but it was not the same case mentally.

"Do give him my best wishes, Your Highness," the lord said, nodding his head slightly. His eyes were shiny, and the skin on his face oily. "You know I care deeply for the crown."

_Yes, it's quite obvious with the way you kiss the dirt beneath the King's feet._

"Of course," Saralegui smiled graciously, sweeping away before Lord Crewe had the chance of plucking his daughter from the crowd and present her to him.

It was not often, but Saralegui did dance sometimes, in an effort not to appear as a recluse. He would suddenly approach, extending a hand to a shy little girl, who would blush profusely and accept. (Not that they actually had much of a choice.)

It was something he was good at, dancing. His feet were light and nimble, and since he had learned how (through the countless times he had seen men and women waltzing), Saralegui had never stepped on a single foot.

By the time the song was over, and he left his partner with a smile, the little girl would already be a mess of infatuation. Her parents would be glad that they had found a way.

It was child's play, quite literally.

Banquets were indeed useful. As he was still very young, Saralegui was generally uninvolved with the politics that his father surrounded himself with. But more than once, he had sent Berias to extract information from anywhere he could get it, mostly through the rather loud conversations the council had concerning affairs that were meant to be kept secret.

(They were incompetent, Saralegui thought. In the end, it only just provided him with more things to rectify once he took the throne. But he was thankful for the source of information, nonetheless.)

In these little celebrations, he gathered information. It was incredibly easy, as everyone thought him a harmless child. Many times, they would allow little details to slip out, and he would pick at them. By the end of the conversation, he would know more than enough.

Berias often stayed at a corner, eavesdropping at his request.

It was in what Berias heard that Saralegui often paid the most attention to.

"They think you are different from His Majesty."

That was what Saralegui wanted, and he savored the information.

Later that night, when the door had been shut, and Berias had left the room, Prince Saralegui stood before his mirror. It was an ancient one that had been placed in the room long before he had been born – no one knew how old it was, where it had come from or who had even used it before him. It stood tall, towering above him.

Its design was unusual – the details on its bronze frame were exquisite, fragile in comparison to the sturdy creations of the Shimarese. He had never seen anything like it.

Berias had said that King Gilbert himself had probably brought it back from his travels. When Saralegui asked where he supposed it had come from, the guard fell silent.

In the moonlight, he stared at it. And he stared at himself.

His reflection, with its shoulder-length hair and tawny eyes, smiled at him.

Satisfied, the Prince went to sleep.

It was when he woke the next morning that Saralegui remembered that his hair was longer than he had seen it in his reflection. He remembered that he had had his glasses on when he had seen himself smile.

When he looked into his mirror again, he was the same as he had ever been.

He dismissed it.

But as he grew older, Saralegui would always check every minute detail on the mirror was identical to that of the free-moving world.

* * *

You may have noticed the incredibly long grace period between this and my last update. I will not offer any excuses unless asked, but I will apologize greatly. It was not my intention to leave. You can blame either Hetalia or me. It's the same thing.

I assure you that this story will never be dropped until it is finished. I've done this too many times before, and no matter how long it takes, no matter how few people will ever read it, _I will finish this story_. It _will_ be ten chapters, as I have mentioned in a reply.

-Wayward's Passenger

PS: Just so you know, I pulled a lot of that stuff about Small Shimaron out of my ass.


	6. Relic

**Relic**

Consequences, consequences.

He felt them like a stone setting in his eye, like a thorn twisting in his side. The pain in his chest was a constant reminder of everything he had never wished to know and everything he had ever wanted.

His body was tired, and so was he.

There were days, mornings, seconds where King Gilbert would wonder what would have happened if he had never set foot outside his country. He wondered what would have happened if his ship had never been caught in a storm that would lead him to his only love.

He wondered what would have happened if he hadn't taken Saralegui to Small Shimaron.

What had he been thinking? He was a leader, a ruler of a great nation. He had disappeared for over two years, and he brought home a bastard child. Utter foolishness.

The scandal had reared its head when the nobles had seen the babe. The sight was strange, alien – an infant in the rough arms of their king, the man who had led them in war, who had shown them the joy of victory. Under their skeptical gazes, Saralegui slept as his father carried him into the castle.

The buzz of a good story had enveloped Small Shimaron for months, spreading like disease. The mystery of it had clenched around the mothers, maidens, and little girls – what had happened in those two years? Who was the child's mother? Where was she now? No one but the king and the few men who had joined him on the voyage knew, and none of these would ever let a breath of the story fly free.

It was not long before it reached even Big Shimaron. An envoy had even visited to scrutinize the boy, before leaving with no comment.

Eventually, the story staled, and Saralegui grew into a ripe little prince, intelligent and quiet. Not many could find much fault in him. But as his hair grew longer and his eyes, strangely, brighter, Gilbert found himself turning away from his only son.

Saralegui looked so much like his mother.

And he felt his heart break a little, just looking into the tawny eyes. It was all too much, and he couldn't bear to see him, the reminder of a dream that reality had torn away from him.

Consequences, consequences.

He had tried to hit two birds with one stone – he had Savion, one of the only men who had survived the voyage, create glasses. Ones that would seal the power in his eyes. Instead of the clear glass the mage had been expecting to prepare, the King had requested a light purple, the color of royalty, as the child deserved.

And then the lavender glasses were on the child's face – his scrutinizing pointed out that they were too big for him. Saralegui had hidden the cloth-covered tips beneath his hair. Smart child.

But his eyes were as sharp as ever. He supposed he should have expected it.

One stone, one bird.

There were mornings where Gilbert would wake and wish to be alone, abandoning all paperwork and discussion, simply to wallow in his misery. But a king did not devote his duty to himself. It was to others, to his people, and Gilbert had absolutely no right to rest.

Not when he was running out of time.

Healers, travelling in the dark of night, had been called, and they had all come to the same conclusion, and not one believed that there was any way out of it.

The King of Small Shimaron was dying.

He had dismissed them, and retired for the evening. Sleep had found him only after the stinging behind his eyes had ceased, though the storm raging on through his mind had yet to calm. He fell into a slumber, yes, but even then, he remained in his own personal prison.

He dreamt of Alazon. In his dreams, he saw her golden hair, and her tawny eyes. Her beauty was a rocky shore and a golden sun. He dreamt of her lovely smile and her smooth skin, pale even under constant teasing from sunlight. They would walk on the sand, just beyond the reach of the treacherous tide that hid the legendary kingdom that Alazon ruled.

And then he dreamt of their parting. There were no farewells, no promises of seeing each other again. It was only in dreams that he remembered that they had never uttered words of love or adoration in their time together.

A king and a queen, forever separated by their own realms. All that was left from their time together was a child – a prince of two kingdoms.

And in the dead of night, Gilbert still found himself asking the same questions.

Did he make the right decision? Was there a better way?

He would die, years later, without an answer.

* * *

I bet you weren't expecting this. To be honest, I wasn't either. I was considering getting this its own story, but Gilbert isn't in the character listing, and it's pretty short. It's related to Saralegui, anyway.

- Wayward's Passenger


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